Burly Tales

by Steve Berman

  Spent, Ben rolled onto his side with a groan. The world seemed to vibrate with his beating heart, in sync with the music still blaring through the castle. Drake snuggled against his back. His awareness drifted, a haze of afterglow that he didn’t want to lose. But as he lay wrapped in Drake’s arms, his vision cleared, and he saw the state his room was in. The bits of food and dirt and paper. The puddle slowly expanding in from the hall. And as the music transformed back to a kind of keening noise, he swore.

  “Don’t suppose you know any hot cleaners who work cheap?” he asked, and was rewarded by a rumbling laugh from Drake.

  “Like I’d let them anywhere near you.”

  And the two grudgingly got out of bed to face whatever awaited them in the rest of the house.

  THE CASTLE WAS EMPTY AND, once they disconnected the siphon and stopped the harp, quiet. They checked each room plus the pantry and closets, but there wasn’t a human to be seen. They had certainly left their mark in the form of a mess Ben did not want to think about cleaning, but not a single one remained.

  “You think the party just, well, ended?” Ben asked.

  “I think the sight of two giants doing the dirty might have been enough to make them rethink the wisdom of their venue choice.” Drake was tracing the mess back to the hole where they had found the beanstalk. “Especially after you so boldly defenestrated their leader. I’ll have to keep it in mind the next time I have a client who requests nonlethal pest control.”

  Ben rolled his eyes, then stiffened when he heard a strange, rhythmic sound coming from the hole. Both men leaned over and peered down the vine’s expanse.

  “What do you think it is?” he asked.

  Before Drake could answer, though, the noised stopped and the vine lurched. The tendrils gripping the solid cloud tore free as the whole thing broke off and tumbled back towards the ground.

  “I’m guessing they’ve decided they want no part of your cloud kingdom.”

  Ben didn’t know whether to smile or frown. On the one hand, it meant that his problem was over. No more beanstalk, no more humans. On the other hand, though, no more humans meant no more need for an exterminator. At least in a professional capacity. And for all that he wanted to ask Drake to stay, to go out again, to get married and share co-parenting responsibilities with an ill-tempered goose (and okay, maybe that was taking things too far, too fast), he also didn’t know what Drake thought about it. Was this just a job? A fling? A one-time deal? Ben felt the uncertainty churning his stomach; it felt as if the humans had all just migrated into his gut instead of fleeing back to their homes.

  “So,” Ben began, feeling a bit like that beanstalk tumbling through the sky, weightless but expecting the hard slap of the ground at any moment. “So I was wondering—”

  “If I’m free for dinner?” Drake finished. “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to assume. I mean, maybe you were about to ask if I wanted to follow you back inside for a bit more adult fun.”

  Ben blushed. “N-no!” he said, then immediately, “Wait, yes. Or ...

  gah! I mean, I wouldn’t necessarily be against some more of ... that, but I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner. Tonight. With me. I mean, it’s completely okay if you don’t. But if you were free, and wanted to—”

  Drake laughed, and Ben wondered if the humans far below could hear him.

  “You’re adorable, you know that?”

  Ben stiffened, and his blush darkened.

  “I’d love to go to dinner,” Drake said. “My treat, seeing as how I sort of screwed up the whole ‘exterminating’ thing big time. There’s just one thing ...”

  Ben flinched, caught between hope and fear. Did he have a boyfriend he hadn’t mentioned? Some sort of curse that turned him into a very sexy pumpkin under the full moon?

  “Can we leave Tyson at the boarding place an extra night?” Drake asked.

  Ben let go of the breath he’d been holding, and with it the last of his doubt. “We most certainly can. Though I’m totally going to tell her it was your idea, so if she tries to bite your face off the next time she sees you, you’ll know why.”

  “I’ll just have to take her to that pond you mentioned by way of apology. That way you won’t be the only one in the castle getting frisky.”

  Ben smiled. “Then it’s a date.”

  The Most Luxuriant Beard of All

  B.J. Fry

  “MIRROR MIRROR, IN WHICH I peered, tell me who has the most luxuriant beard?” The king stroked his luxurious curls in front of the mirror. He’d been combing the beard, shaping it for years. Oils and balms imported from distant lands kept it silky and charming, a contrast to his brutish reputation.

  “Ah, Your Majesty, can I say you are looking more masculine than ever? And may I just add—”

  The mirror shook against the wall, vibrating and distorting the king’s reflection with his fear.

  “—no other could compete with the amount of care and attention you pay your bristles.”

  The king grinned, seeing through the faint outline of the mirror’s face, a prior lover long since transformed. A spell gone slightly awry.

  The lover had asked for one thing when the king, a mere merchant at the time, brought up the parting. To be together forever. To be able to stare up at his face every morning and bid him goodnight every evening. Surely, the mirror likely had been just wishing for more of a relationship but the king could not grant that, not when his future husband, a prince at the time, had shown interest in him. No, the lover had to go.

  And now, the one and true king could no longer remember his lover’s name. Forever to be called upon as the mirror. A fact that became apparent as soon as the mirror morphed into a fragile frame of glass.

  “Yes, yes.” The king twisted his fingers around the small hairs. “But answer the question.”

  “Of course, your most … magnanimous one.” The mirror dragged out his words, further delaying the inevitable. For he could see, through the mist and haze of his gaze, that the image of the king’s beard no longer drifted to him from the world of magic. No, a new face appeared, and with it a name he had only heard in angry tirades. The unwanted stepchild of the late king’s husband.

  But man, his beard really was one of awe and beauty. The mustache hair practically tickled the mirror ’s fancy. If only he could still feel such things.

  “And …” the king prompted.

  There wasn’t much the mirror could do. Part of the spell that created him forced the image past his face and into the king’s reflection. An image of strength, courage, and daring. Dark black curls twirled down and around the husky man’s head. His dark locks swirled, encasing his face, making his pale blue eyes all the more striking. The beard highlighted his cheekbones, like a god of old, chiseled out of stone. Rosy, like his shiny lips that peaked out just beneath his waxed and shaped mustache. The picture was not easily achieved, but oh did it cause the mirror to tremble for an entirely different reason.

  The king gasped when his stepson, Forrest Snow, was presented on the glass, whether from the shock at not seeing his own image or the awe of being presented with a truly magnificent specimen, the mirror could not be sure.

  Either way, it was unlikely any good would come from this day.

  THE BIRDS TWITTERED AND CHIRPED outside of Forrest Snow’s window. While Forrest was not ready to leave the warm comfort of his bed, he knew that his stepfather, the king, had arranged a lesson today with the notorious huntsman and that was not something he was willing to miss. Even if it did require a certain level of perspiration and grime.

  He decided on a suit meant for a prince. An undershirt of silk, a vest that tapered at his waist, highlighting his chest. He left the crown, not wanting to draw attention. But he couldn’t help but brush and shape his beard. He’d always admired his stepfather’s and felt like his own had grown in nicely. When he’d been younger, it was patchy and awkward, the true testament of youth. But now, as a man, the beard filled and sprouted down his face. His only saving gr
ace was trimming and brushing it, as any man should do. He tamed the beard, but only just barely.

  Obsessed with cleanliness, Forrest kept his things orderly like his father before him. He made his bed and tidied up before leaving, a stickler for a well-kept room.

  As the messenger had said, the huntsman was waiting for him in the courtyard. He wore a plaid button-down, the shirt open at the chest with a bush of hair escaping out.

  Forrest caught himself staring and forced his eyes away until they landed on the ax the man was carrying.

  “What are we to do today?” Forrest shouted jovially. “Chop down a tree?”

  He walked over and patted the man on the back, admiring the tight muscles underneath his button-down.

  The huntsman smiled shyly, his beard more like a light shadow on his face. Perhaps he was shy being this close to the prince. Forrest could not be sure.

  “Something like that.” The huntsman’s mouth tightened. “Shall we ride together or separately, your highness?”

  Now that was a lovely prospect. Forrest considered wrapping his arms around such a delectable man. Or would the huntsman ride behind him, engulfing his large body with his own? Would he smell like sweat and pine? Forrest’s pants tightened. That could get embarrassing.

  “Please, call me Frosty. That’s what my friends call me.” Forrest reached out to shake the man’s hand. Not wanting to make the huntsman uncomfortable, he added, “And let’s ride separately.”

  And so they did. Deep into the forest, beyond the kingdom’s land, if Forrest was not mistaken. The trees clustered closer and closer together until the two men could no longer ride side by side, and yet still they went further. Finally, the huntsman stopped and dismounted from his horse.

  Forrest followed suit.

  “So are we to chop down an oak?” Forrest asked. He opened his hand towards the huntsman. “If you hand me the ax, I can get started. Though I’m not sure what we’re to do with the wood.”

  The huntsman paused, the ax heavy in his hands, his shoulders slumped. Finally, he relinquished it. Perhaps a family heirloom? Forrest decided then and there he would be gentle with it. Well, as gentle as one could be when chopping down a tree.

  “How’s this one?” Forrest pointed at the thick trunk of the tree. The wood should burn nicely if they were to make a campfire. Would this be a survival trip? His father had always told him how he needed to become more familiar with nature.

  The huntsman nodded, his mind seeming far away.

  Forrest lifted the ax and swung at the bottom. He wasn’t quite sure about the art of chopping, but he figured a good swing should do the trick. He set the ax down and looked at the damage, a boisterous laugh erupting from his throat.

  There was barely a mark.

  “I seem to be quite terrible at this.” Forrest smiled at the huntsman and noticed the man was looking remarkably stoic. “Oh, come on now, it can’t be that bad. Surely if you show me how?”

  Forrest brought the ax over to the huntsman and lifted it towards the man, his hand sore from that small bit of labor.

  But the man just didn’t seem to have the heart to grab the thing. “You are not what I had imagined.”

  “Oh, no one could imagine someone like me.” Forrest rubbed his fingers against his beard. “I’m one of a kind.”

  “Yes, I’m noticing that.”

  The huntsman shook his head, some sort of internal debate ongoing. Would he really refuse to teach him?

  Forrest straightened his face, determined to take this task seriously. “I’m sorry if I offended you in some way. I really do want to learn and become a better outdoorsman.”

  “No, it’s not that.” The huntsman sighed, defeat written all over his features. “I’m the one who should apologize.”

  “What for? We’ve only just begun. Surely I’ve not learned any bad habits that quickly.”

  The huntsman paused, his face transforming to anger. “The king has hired me to kill you.” He spit the words out with a scowl. “I’m supposed to bring your beard back as proof.”

  “My beard?” Forrest rubbed the precious thing. He’d worked so hard on it, but if it could spare his life …

  “But I cannot. It is far too lovely to be chopped off like a common garden weed. And you are far too kind to be taken from this world. No. I have a different plan! If you’ll help me, we shall shave off my chest hair and present that instead. But you can never return to the castle, or your stepfather will know that you live and what I’ve done.”

  “But your chest hair, it’s …” Practically a work of art, Forrest wanted to say. How could one choose between the two?

  “To be honest, I’ve been wanting to trim it. It chafes when trapped inside my shirts and it tends to grow back quickly anyway.”

  The huntsman unbuttoned his top, revealing a wide furry chest. The wires of hair were just long enough to be convincing as his beard, if not the wrong color. “Don’t worry, I’ll color it before returning. The king need never know.”

  “If it is the only way.” Forrest still felt it a pity, but he helped the huntsman. It wasn’t like he wanted to die.

  As he was prepared to take Forrest’s beard, the huntsman had more than enough supplies to shave his own chest. But as they needed to keep the hairs as long as possible, Forrest got to do the honors.

  They found a river close by and wet his chest beneath the high sun. Water glistened off his skin. Forrest touched his warm torso and began the delicate procedure, rubbing the sharp blade beneath each strand of hair. He’d never been this close to another man, and was thankful for the beard hiding his face, hot from blushing. He placed the hair in the huntsman’s bag amongst pieces of coal.

  Forrest wanted to provide the huntsman with some gift, something to thank him for saving his life, but he could not think of anything that could repay such a debt. He knew someday, somehow, he would help someone else in need. He would be more than a spoiled prince.

  As the noon sun dipped in the sky, the huntsman had to go back. The king, not anticipating an overnight stay, would be expecting his swift return. And Forrest bid him goodbye, fearing for the night ahead. Fearing for a future he did not know.

  Forrest spent the night alone, cold and shivering on the ground. He tried to make a bed of leaves, but he was woefully inept at the task. Dirt and bugs and rocks pressed against his back. The stars kept him company, his mind searching for a reason why his stepfather hated him so. He understood the pride that went along with an impressive beard, but to order Forrest’s death? Perhaps, as a prim stepson, he was left wanting. For where Forrest’s father found kindness and love, all Forrest had felt since his death was emptiness.

  Morning brought with it a new day, and although his clothes were wrinkled and smudged, he felt a renewed sense of survival. He’d made it one night. He could do that again. Even if his back did ache and his stomach rumbled. He’d been saving the paltry amount of food the huntsman left him.

  But after the morning sun reached the sky, a squirrel approached Forrest. Its beady eyes stared up at him as if asking for something. The small amount of food he did have included a handful of nuts. Forrest pulled them out, placing them on the ground near the poor woodland creature. The squirrel greedily took them, shoving them into his cheeks before scurrying off.

  A few minutes later, it returned.

  But poor Forrest had nothing more to give. “I’m sorry little one, but I have nothing to spare. Unless you want this?” Forrest produced a small loaf, the last of his food, and placed it on the ground, his stomach growling in protest.The squirrel squeaked and, instead of gobbling the bread up, moved away from him, as if signaling for him to follow.

  Grateful that his last meal was no longer under consideration, he picked up the loaf and followed, curious where the creature could want to take him. A squirrel did not make for a good forest guide but eventually, they came upon a small cottage. As if seeing him settled, the squirrel trilled with delight and disappeared into the undergrowth.

/>   Excitement and, dare he say hope, filled Forrest. He walked up to the front door and knocked with his big heavy fist against the wood. No one answered.

  He glanced around, inspecting the area for signs of life, but found none. Although he knew it was terrible manners, and really quite shameful, he did the unthinkable and peeked inside the windows.

  The room he could see was an absolute mess. Just in shambles. A complete disaster.

  Fearing for the resident’s life, Forrest tried the door to find it unlocked. He rushed inside, forced to duck as he entered the small cottage, and began searching for someone in trouble. He called out, fearing he would find the worst. The floor rumbled and shook beneath his feet.

  Instead, he found a kitchen full of moldy dishes, a living room with clothes laid all about, covered in dust, and a bedroom with seven unmade beds. Curious. Obviously, whoever lived here had a lot going on in their lives, he decided. Based on the quality of furniture and cookware, they appeared rather well off, perhaps the benefit of combining seven incomes. As a prince in hiding, he had nothing to offer them. Therefore, as a failure of a stepson, failure as an heir to the throne, he would give them a hand in the only bit of business he ever managed to do well.

  He cleaned the cottage.

  Forrest couldn’t think about the task as a whole, as it was a very large task for even one such as him. But he worked on each room one at a time. The clothes he piled up, preparing to wash them by hand tomorrow. The dishes he began to soak, as he was unable to remove the grime and buildup. The beds were easy enough to make, if not a little short for his comfort.